Unreasonable Demands
by Niente Zero
Summary: Three occasions on which much is asked of Ray Kowalski.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit.**

"I want my mommy."

Ray Kowalski let his head fall back against the wall of the warehouse from which he was trying to extricate a six year old kidnapping victim. A noisy six year old kidnapping victim.

"Shi- I mean, shhh, kid, I want my mommy, too, but I don't see her around here either, do you? Now. You gotta be quiet for me."

There was a radio blaring, a bouncy song exhorting Ray and anyone else in the vicinity not to worry, to be happy. The damn song had been on the radio every day for months. At least it had the benefit of providing some cover for Ray, as long as he could keep the kid down below a wail.

"Why do I gotta be quiet? Are you a bad man like the other bad men? Why'd the other man fall over? Did you hurt him? You look like a bad man."

Six. Ray was sure he had never been that young. He felt, frankly, ancient. Two months under cover with a gang running a protection racket, gathering evidence, working his way up the food chain from nowhere, two months of living under someone else's name, and for nothing.

He shouldn't be here now. A reliable snitch came through with the news that his cover was shaky, if not completely undermined. Someone from the old neighborhood had passed the word up to one of the bosses running the street gangs. It was out there now, that Ray wasn't who he said he was, that he was a cop. Ray wouldn't be in the warehouse at all if word had trickled down yet, but the lookout on the door, Ramon, out of his mind and high as a kite, had waved him on in. Ray could only be thankful for the small window of opportunity.

Ray knew he shouldn't be in the warehouse, but when tiny Mrs. Perkins, the greengrocer's wife, had thrown him up against the wall, him, tough guy Kowalski, and yelled at him for taking her baby, hysterical with grief and fear, he'd known he had to come and see. He had to see if it was true that the gang stepped up to kidnapping the child of a local merchant.

Maybe Ray was getting soft, but the kid was tied to a chair, and just because he talked a mile a minute was no reason for Jaime, the gang member watching him, to hit the kid. So Ray hit Jaime first, while his hand was raised to slap the child. Ray had untied the small hostage and carried him out of sight to where they were now hidden among stacks of shipping pallets that formed part of an accidental maze, a fortunate arrangement of hazards that provided at least rudimentary cover.

"I'm not a bad man. I'm a cop. I'm going to get you home to your mommy, okay? But you have to be nice and quiet. You gotta sneak with me. What's your name, anyway?"

"Lawrence."

"Big name for a little kid. Okay, Lawrence, you like playing cowboys and Indians?"

Lawrence looked up at Ray with big, skeptical eyes.

"Why?"

"Why? Because we gotta be clever and the bad men will be looking for us. You like being a cowboy or an Indian?"

"Why?"

"Because you have to pick one, that's why."

"Indian."

"Great, kid. Good choice." Ray smiled crookedly at the child. "We're gonna be Indians and get out of here."

"You don't look like an Indian, mister. You look like a bad man."

"You said that. We're just pretending to be Indians. I'm really a cop, remember."

Reasoning with a six year old was not even remotely covered in hostage negotiation courses.

"I want my mommy."

And the kid could talk in circles. Thinking of his brother's young children, Ray supposed he was lucky they weren't still stuck in the dreaded 'why' loop.

"Look, kid, your mommy isn't here, I am. I want to get you to your mommy, she's waitin' for you, and I need you to be very quiet and crawl with me." Ray walked a fine line between friendly and stern in his command. It wouldn't be long before the rest of the gang came back, or the gang member he'd hit came around. There was a lookout at the doors at either end of the warehouse, and the only way out was past them, which meant getting Lawrence to shut his mouth long enough to sneak up on one of them.

Ramon, on the west door, was way too twitchy to sneak up on. That left Saul on the east door. Saul wasn't twitchy, but he was vicious, and he'd shoot the kid as soon as look at him.

The radio snapped off and Ray put his finger to Lawrence's mouth, watching the child's eyes go wide with fear. Crap. They had less time than he'd hoped. Jaime must have a hard head.

"Saul, Ramon, get your asses in here." Ray heard Jaime yell. "We got ourselves a pig."

Lawrence opened his mouth wide, as if to scream, and Ray grabbed him, slapping his hand across the open mouth. The kid would get them both killed. Not that Ray didn't understand the instinct to scream. He knew better than Lawrence that there was plenty to scream about. Three gang members versus one cop and one kid. The odds of getting out alive were not great. Ray heard footsteps. The oddly stacked pallets and crates were the only cover in the warehouse, so he figured Ramon, Jaime and Saul were converging on them. Ray pulled Lawrence deeper into the maze, playing for time. He should never have hit Jaime. He should have let Jaime slap Lawrence. He should have gone for backup. But it was too late for regrets.

Like, oh, like the big one. If he had listened to his father, someone else would be in this place, trying to rescue this kid. Ray would be somewhere in a suit, probably drinking the fancy wine Stella liked over lunch, doing deals, not covered in the literal filth of the warehouse floor and the figurative filth of two months of pretending to be a lowlife like these guys. Faking it when the pills or the joint were passed around. Breaking shop windows on order. Threatening to break kneecaps. If his dad could see him, not just unable to wash the stink of it off him, but rolling in it to pass for one of them, if his dad could see that it'd break his heart.

But if Ray were in a suit somewhere, doing something clean, something above all this, who'd be here with the kid? There was no blindfold, there were no balaclavas. The gang, without question, would have killed Lawrence and put his body in the lake when they got the ransom. The ransom would have gone into their veins or up their noses in a matter of days. This kidnapping was anarchic free-enterprise, nothing to do with the chain of command Ray was supposed to be trying to infiltrate, the next guys up from these guys, dividing neighborhoods up for looting, ordering which business needed burning down to send a message. The gang members had more to fear from their bosses for this stunt than they did from the police. Even if Ray's cover hadn't been blown, the operation was shot. It was sure too late to regret anything.

Lawrence's heart was pounding under Ray's hand. "Steady, kid. We're gonna be sneaky, remember. Like Indians? Remember?"

He felt a shaky nod of Lawrence's head. Ray eased his hand off Lawrence's mouth.

"They got us covered on the ground. Those cowboys, there are too many of 'em for you an' me to take on, kemosabe." Ray whispered in Lawrence's ear. "I'm gonna give you a boost up, then we're going over the top."

Lawrence nodded again, his brown eyes wide in his dirt smudged face. Ray scooted over to the nearest intersection in the maze of pallets, making sure no one was close. When he was certain the coast was as clear as it was going to be, he stood and lifted Lawrence onto the top of the nearest pile, then reached up. It took all of his strength to pull himself on top of the stack, and he lay flat, breathing heavily and listening.

The footsteps were getting closer. "Come on out, little piggy." It was Saul's voice, full of glee. "We're gonna have fun. You and me and the kid."

Not on Ray's watch. He rolled over onto his stomach. He could see all three of the men stalking through the cluttered section of warehouse. The way toward the west door looked clearest. Rising to a crouch, Ray took Lawrence's hand and began to move quickly over the top of the pallets toward the open door. After about ten yards they ran out of pallet. There was a drop down onto some packing crates. Ray jumped down first and swung Lawrence down after him. The child stumbled as he landed, falling to his knee.

"I got an owie!"

Ray bit back a pointless curse. Six was little. It was still practically kindergarten. But the child had drawn the attention of the gang members.

"Okay, come on, your mom will kiss it better when we get to her. That's what moms do, right? But we gotta hurry, and be quiet." Ray comforted Lawrence. He slid off the crate onto the floor and lifted Lawrence down, carrying him in his arms for speed. The door was still twenty yards away and Ray sighed at the inconvenience of picking a large abandoned warehouse as the gang's general headquarters.

"Over here!" Ramon's voice sounded out, too close for comfort as Ray dashed for the exit. He heard gunfire, but Ramon's aim was terrible, his hands shaking from too much of whatever he was high on. Jaime came bolting over the packing cases and, resentful of the blow that had knocked him out, took the time to sight before he shot. Ray was a moving target, but not moving fast enough. He had his body angled, hunched to cover Lawrence. Like hell he was going to let the kid get shot this close to the exit. A bullet skimmed his left arm, and Ray felt it go numb and useless. He pressed Lawrence more tightly to his chest with his right arm. The second bullet nearly ended everything. Ray didn't even feel the impact as it tore through his hip. Sheer terror and adrenaline kept him stumbling forward, practically throwing Lawrence out the door.

"Go... find a cop. Go find a cop in a uniform. You know what that looks like, right? Run." Ray shoved Lawrence toward the street end of the alley and lay on his side. He felt the full force of everything now. That was going to be a hell of an exit wound. Hand shaking, Ray pulled his gun. Jaime was silhouetted in the doorway and Ray shot upward. Jaime hadn't time to see that Ray had fallen, didn't have time to do anything as Ray's bullet found its mark in his chest and he fell backward.

Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he was right to take mom away from all of this. The smell of blood, his, Jaime's, was thick, thicker than the slaughterhouse. Jaime was too young to drink legally and he was lying there bleeding to death. Ray wasn't sure anything was going to wash all the blood away. That wouldn't matter if Ramon and Saul finished things. They probably only held back because he'd shot Jaime. But all they had to do was wait, wait for Ray to pass out. At least Lawrence- at least Lawrence was going back to his mom. Someone'd kiss his owie better and take away the terror. Ray felt cold. His mouth fell slack and his eyes closed before he had the chance to hear a piercing little voice: "That's the man, he saved me, he said he was a cop like you." and the deeper voice of a frantic uniformed patrol man calling in to report shots fired, officer down.

**Fraser: "In December 1988 a young boy was being held in a warehouse. You went in even though you knew your cover had been blown. You drew fire, you were wounded, yet you managed to rescue the boy. Your first citation."**


	2. Chapter 2

Problem:

The Gravy Incident at Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving had turned into one giant mess when Stella's mother, who was like Stella's most irritating personality traits cubed, had innocently enquired of Stella as to whether they were 'trying', and then, like she didn't know the score, turned to Ray and said, "Stanley, I'm sure your mother would love grandchildren, too."

Why Stella always had to line up with her parents to snipe at him, Ray didn't understand. Always the lawyer, she'd quickly staked out a defensive position by archly pointing out that Ray's mother didn't even bother to call him these days. Then she added the below-the-belt jab about Ray just wanting to prove he'd be a better father than his Dad. If Ray threw the gravy boat at the wall, it was a justifiable gravy-cide.

Now Christmas was approaching and Ray didn't want to spend it fighting. Stella deserved better than that. And besides, strategically speaking, providing a diversion at Christmas might save Ray from the topic of children being brought up where the mother-in-law could get in poisonous jabs. That was private, between him and Stella.

Solution:

A little blue velvet box for Stella to open on Christmas day at her folks'. Something bigger than the tiny chip that was all Ray had been able to afford when he proposed to Stella. He'd been saving for this. Ray was going to get a rock big enough to show all her lawyer friends and her smug mom and dad that Ray was as good as any of them.

It wasn't a watertight plan, but it covered a lot of contingencies. Then maybe, in the new year, he could sit Stella down and really make her see how much it would mean if they could start a family. How much he wanted to share that with her.

Today's mission:

A lunch time shopping trip to Chicago's Jewelers' Center. Get in, find something that said "My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world," get out. Quick. Simple. Foolproof.

Right.

The drive from the precinct to the mall had been pleasant enough. The snow was doing picture-book things, not yet succumbing to the accumulations of city grime. Ray drove with a grin on his face. He might have lived there all his life but there was still something about Chicago with a white Christmas coming that made him feel like the innocent boy he'd probably never been.

Ray crowed triumphantly when he scored street parking on Wabash. Things looked even better when he realized there was still a quarter in the meter. The art deco building that housed the panoply of jewelry stores Ray had to choose from was intimidating, sure, but Ray had a plan and a schedule and he wasn't going to let a little thing like a high-classed building full of all kinds of rocks put him off his game.

There were any number of stores inside the mall, most of which required an appointment to visit during weekday hours. Ray had another destination in mind. On the outside of the building there was a small, much more homely and humble jewelry store, a family operation that had been in business since the mall was established just after the turn of the century. Ray pushed the door open, setting an old-fashioned bell over it jingling, and found the only other customers were a young, nervous looking man, and a couple, the woman obviously pregnant. The young man was looking at the display of engagement rings, while the couple inspected silver rattles and christening cups. Ray put on his glasses, taking the ability to see the jewelry clearly over the trivial annoyance of looking nerdy. After all, he already felt quite out of place, what was the difference?

"May I help you, sir? Were you looking for anything in particular?"

The store's proprietor was an affable looking man of late middle age, wiry and balding with tufts of grey hair that poked out over his ears, making him look rather mad-professorish. His manner was soothing. Ray stepped forward, losing some of the awkwardness of finding himself out of his social milieu.

"Yeah. Uh. I was looking for a Christmas present. For my wife."

"I'm sure we can find the perfect little something." the store owner said with a smile and the hint of a wink.

The door to the shop slammed open with a bang and a dramatic jangling of the bell. All five occupants of the shop turned to see three men enter, pulling ski masks over their faces and carrying sawn-off shotguns. The last robber into the shop pulled the door closed and locked and flipped the open sign over.

Ray rolled his eyes. Definitely amateur hour. Because a "Sorry, We Are Closed" sign was a magical barrier against anyone outside noticing the presence of large, menacing, armed men in the store.

Ray's second reaction was to shift quickly to put himself between the armed robbers and the vulnerable civilians, particularly the pregnant woman and her terrified looking husband.

This was not the time for heroism. Co-operation was the best route until a SWAT team showed up. (That was assuming that the owner had pushed the silent alarm, and Ray figured he looked at least that smart, and given the general wealth of the area, a SWAT response would probably be near-instant just so no-one had to hear the Mayor complain later.) But until that rapid response arrived, Ray knew where he belonged, and that was in the line of fire.

"Don't move! Stop moving and get down on the floor!" the first robber to enter the store yelled. His voice was strong and commanding but not free from strain. He had an imposing physical presence to match the voice.

Ray put out his hands placatingly.

"Whatever you say, you're the boss here." he said. "But the lady shouldn't be on the floor in her state. Can we get her in a chair?"

The two men behind the robber who had spoken looked at each other then to the leader for an answer.

With a very slight nod of his head, the leader spoke again. "She sits. The rest of you, on the floor, now."

There was a chair in the corner, abutting a stretch of counter top that was covered in black felt. Ray assumed it was for customers to sit in if they were to spend a long time designing the perfect piece with the jeweler. The pregnant woman made her way over to it, shooting nervous glances at her husband who stood still with his hands raised. When she had sat, the leader of the robbers yelled, "Down on the floor, the rest of you. Don't move. Not a muscle. Don't make any noise. Just stay down. Do what you're told."

Only a minute had passed since the gunmen had burst into the store, but everything was moving in crystal clear slow motion for Ray. He got down to the floor as commanded, but made sure that he was still in a position where he had the clearest possible view of the robbers. Anything could go wrong, and he would act when and if it became necessary.

So much for a quick lunch time errand.

Adrenaline flooded through Ray as he lay on the floor watching the gunmen smash the glass cases in the shop and load jewelry into cloth bags. An absolutely miraculous system of chemistry and mechanics transformed his whole lean, muscular body into a poised monument of completely appropriate stress, a bowstring-taut force waiting to be released. It wasn't his usual jittery tension, but an elevated state of awareness and readiness, alert to every minute motion around him.

No-one was getting hurt. Bottom line. Any move toward violence from the robbers and Ray would put them down where they stood and deal with the inevitable mountain of paperwork and cross-examination from IA later.

The first sign of things going horribly wrong for the robbers was a siren. Ray's head snapped up though he kept the rest of his body still. Some idiot came in with lights and sirens blazing and now there was no way SWAT was putting this party to bed without trouble.

"What the- " one of the gunman who hadn't spoken yet started to swear, a long, creative string of curse words. His attention, and that of the other two robbers, was now firmly on the front of the store where a battalion of heavily armed and armored police were blocking the street.

"This is the Chicago Police Department. The building is surrounded. Come out slowly, one at a time, with your hands raised." A voice boomed over a megaphone.

The leader didn't waste his breath swearing.

"Well, I guess we all just got very unlucky." he said. "We are getting out of here, with what we came for, no matter how many of you have to die."

Ray was on his feet, action preceding thought. As he stood, he pulled his service weapon from the holster concealed at the small of his back. The robbers had their guns pointed at the other hostages and were slow to react to his sudden, fluid and graceful arc up off the floor. By the time they turned to face him, Ray was holding the gun out with one hand and his badge with the other.

"Chicago PD. Put the weapons down now. It's over, boys, you ain't getting out."

The leader stepped forward, his stubby shotgun aimed at Ray's chest. Ray looked unflinchingly at him.

"We will get out, whether we have to wade through blood to do it." the leader spoke. His commanding voice now rose, the cadence of a preacher, a fanatic, underlying it. "We came here to raise cash or raise hell and we'll do both. You heard of the Weather Underground? Well, the world's going to hear of us. It wasn't going to be today, but it's fine by me. You want to die first?"

Okay. New information. Ray quickly assimilated the fact that the leader of the gunmen was stark raving batshit mad. And had some kind of Messiah complex. That made things a whole new ball game.

Fight fire with fire.

"Yeah?" Ray said. "You think so? Here's what I think. Listen up. Any of you punks fires one shot and I will finish you where you stand. There's three of you and one of me, so any way you figure it, I end up dead. But I shoot good. Real good." He grinned, letting a fraction of the fury and tension he felt gleam through his eyes. "I bet none of you just re-qualified at a police firin' range, and I bet none of you'd get my scores anyway. So no matter who you think you're gonna shoot to make your point, one of you dies. I guarantee. I figure I can maybe even take two if I get real lucky or you think of targeting one of these other good people first."

Ray swung his gun around to point at each of the robbers in quick succession.

"You're probably thinkin' no-one's as crazy as I am. Any minute now I'll have the sense to put the gun down and let this play out. But you know what? All these people, they're just trying to go about their lives, take care of their families, do something nice, and you march in here like you got some kind of right to smash up someone's business and hurt innocent people, and I'm not stupid, but maybe I am just crazy enough that it is _not going to happen_."

Ray could see the two followers wavering in their conviction that everything was going to go according to the leader's plans. He could feel that his raw anger and his apparent total lack of self-preservation instincts were worrying them. He had them wondering which one of them he would shoot. Right now he was only playing for time. Time for the SWAT teams to get everything in place. He was playing a losing hand, three on one, to keep their attention riveted on him and not on the civilians.

Behind the gunmen, Ray's eye was caught by the pregnant woman's husband crawling over to her. The man who had been shopping for a ring was curled on the ground sobbing, but the husband's movement to join his wife was enough to distract Ray briefly, his eyes flickering away from the gunmen. In turn, the gunmen turned to see what he was looking at.

Ray could have kicked himself. The last thing he wanted was for the robbers to think clearly about using the pregnant woman as leverage. In desperation, he yanked his gun upward and fired at the ceiling, hoping like hell that there was no-one on the floor above. Surely by now everyone in the area would be cleared out.

"Hey!" he yelled as he shot.

The gunshot and the yell brought the attention squarely back on Ray.

The moment of truth. Ray saw the intent to shoot him in the eyes of the leader. Time was up. Ray leveled his gun and prepared to squeeze the trigger. He hoped that if he took the leader down with him, the other two gunmen would be too panicked to do any damage before SWAT finally got their asses into gear.

Before either man could fire, the door was slammed open off its hinges by a portable metal battering ram and the telltale slow hiss of a tear gas canister could be heard. Another canister was lobbed into the store from the direction of the back room. Ray just had time to realize he wasn't going to die before the gas hit, making his eyes stream and stealing the breath from his lungs with a fire that made his throat raw. SWAT team members in heavy black gear and gas masks stormed into the store. Ray dropped his weapon and put his hands over his head, doubling over and coughing as he did. No point getting mistaken for one of the bad guys and shot after making it through the face off with the madman.

"Pregnant lady in here." he yelled hoarsely as one of the SWAT team members pulled his hands up behind his back, cuffing him roughly. Which, Ray thought, was fair enough, since all they knew was he was the guy who fired a shot. A bout of coughing wracked him, and he struggled to draw breath, but as soon as he could, he spoke again. "Get her out, damn it, get her out."

The mistaken identity was sorted out as soon as Ray was hustled out of the building. Of course, it would have to be his captain who saw him handcuffed, crying, and coughing up a lung. He'd be living this one down for a while. But at least that meant that he was released and bundled off to be treated quickly.

Sitting in the back of one of the ambulances that had been called to the scene, a friendly paramedic gently washing his eyes out, Ray finally began to let down from the anger and adrenaline that had kept him functioning throughout the robbery. He felt a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders, warming him from chills he hadn't even noticed.

The sky was a pale, bright square against the open doors of the ambulance, and the snow was still falling prettily. It seemed to Ray to be the most beautiful, most clean and stunning goddamned thing he'd ever seen. He should have been dead, and he was alive.

The image of Stella flashed in his mind. Stella on their wedding day, her dress as crisp white in satin as the snow-heavy clouds. She was so beautiful that day. Ray thought she still was. Beautiful, and he was alive, he'd been a second away from losing it all, but somehow he was still alive to go on, to go home to her. So what if they were fighting about kids? There was time.

There was time because he wasn't lying in a pool of blood and viscera on the floor of the jewelry store, a shot gun blast at close range taking out half his chest or his head. There was time to go home and tell Stella she was still as lovely, still as breathtaking as the first day he saw her. There was time to wait for her to be ready to talk about kids, ready to start their family. Because he was still breathing to be able to cough from the sting of the tear gas. Because not all the tears were chemically induced. They all could have been dead in there. And he'd been ready to trade his life for time, time for the others to be rescued.

Ray wasn't going to buy Stella that big shiny rock after all. Screw her family and what they thought. Her fancy friends and their fancy possessions. What was stuff? They had time. He'd spend the money and take her away for Christmas and show her every second that she was enough, and that it was enough that they were alive, and together.

**Fraser: "In December 1990, in a jewelry store you singlehandedly held off three gunmen, saving four innocent lives. Your second citation."**


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you listening to me?" Stella asked impatiently.

Ray's head shot up from the book he was looking at. Stella was all dressed up in her going to court suit, while he was in sweats, because for once he got a day off. He tried to remember the last thing Stella said to him. More and more she was sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher, "wah wah wah..."

"'Course I was listening, Stell."

"So you'll meet us at Charlie Trotter's at seven p.m.? Oh, and for god's sake, Ray, wear the suit I bought you last month. This is important to me."

Oh. Right. Stella's dinner with the boss and his wife. And probably a few other legal types. Ray had completely forgotten.

"Seven o'clock. Not a problem." Ray grinned from the couch.

Stella's look was fond exasperation, but the fondness in it seemed to fade every day. "Damn." she said, glancing at her watch. "Now I'm running late."

She left the house in a flurry of motion. She remembered everything except a goodbye kiss for Ray. He couldn't think of the last time she'd remembered that.

Ray put the book down on the table. "Remembrance of Things Past." It was pretty thick. Of course they were going out to a fancy restaurant where he had to stuff himself into a monkey suit for her. Stella had stopped listening to Ray about the same time Ray had stopped listening to her. So he shouldn't be surprised that she'd never registered his request for one nice night in, quiet, just the two of them, before he started his new undercover assignment.

Stella didn't want him going undercover any more. That was part of the problem. Not that she could find much to object to in his latest cover. English teacher at a high school? Ray grimaced. He picked up the Cliff's notes to the novel. This wasn't going to be like that film with Lou Diamond Phillips where the guy taught all the kids calculus. Ray flipped the book open. On the other hand, at least he wasn't baby-faced enough to be sent in as a student. That would really suck. No, just a substitute teacher, plausibly desperate enough for extra money to get caught up in the drug dealing that plagued the South Chicago school he was going into.

Ray skimmed the Cliff's notes for a while, then tossed them back onto the coffee table and swung his feet up onto the couch. He had this day off, and he was going to enjoy it. Stella wasn't here to nag him to get dressed or do the dishes or get his feet off the furniture or speak properly or leave his stress behind at the office or any of the things she wanted him to do lately.

Lately, he might as well be undercover in his own home. When they were both home at the same time, he wore the stupid polo shirts with little crocodiles she bought him, and smiled, and pretended like his work wasn't a losing battle, like what he saw out there didn't get under his skin a little more every day. He made nice to her friends and never could seem to get away to go down to the bar to see his friends, if he still had any. He grinned and played the fool, and thought every second was worth it if she'd stay.

Stella would leave one day, but it wouldn't be because Ray didn't put the effort in to be what she wanted. Hell, he'd known when they met that she was out of his league, but he couldn't let go, not after this long. Not when what they'd had, well, the good times had been so good.

But this - this giving everything, this hanging on for dear life to their marriage, while she just let go, it was making him hate her. And Ray couldn't take that. So sure, he said yes to this undercover job, even though she'd be mad. He needed to get away, into another life for a bit. Away from what was going sour between them.

Tonight he'd go and be her slightly embarrassing but basically housebroken husband at the fancy restaurant, and tomorrow he'd go be someone else, someone who had read "Remembrance of Things Past", not just the study notes. Someone who was enough of a loser to drift up as a substitute teacher at one of the worst schools in the city. Ray figured that part would be easy enough.

It wasn't that his solve rate sucked. Ray solved crimes. This week's big case was an embezzlement. Really, the lawyers would bring it down to number crunching, but Ray'd known the guy was guilty because he had the same kind of shoes Stella's dad always wore, and no way could he have afforded them on his accountant's salary. But what good did it do to lock up one petty bastard who really didn't hurt anyone, when the next day you turned around and your desk was still covered in files. Kids hurt. Rapes. Assaults. Violent thefts.

And the money crimes or the ones where someone important knew someone who got hurt, those were always on the top of the file, and people like the kids in that high school, anything that happened to them was on the bottom of the file. How was he supposed to leave all that behind and be what Stella wanted, like the minute he got off his shift, everything was fine and dandy?

The phone rang. Ray sighed. It was his day off. He could let the machine get it. On the third ring, he sighed again and arched his back, twisting so he could grab it off the side table without moving from the couch.

"'Lo." he said. Maybe Stella forgot something other than saying good bye.

"Kowalski?"

Not Stella. It sounded like one of his informants.

"Ina, is that you? Jeez, it's my day off." Ray said. "Can it wait?"

He had no idea how she'd got his home number in the first place. Somewhere, there was a problem with security.

"No, no. It can't wait."

Ina sounded shaky, scared. Ray sat bolt upright, his feet hitting the floor. Ina was never scared. Sometimes arrogant, pushy. Always demanding, wanting more money than he was prepared to pay for information, but never scared.

"You come meet me, all right?" Ina said. "The usual place. Meet me there. Don't bring no-one, okay?"

Before Ray had a chance to reply, Ina had hung up and Ray was talking to silent space.

Crap. Well, there went his day off. But it sounded like whatever Ina had was big. Ray considered that he should call his partner and let him know what was going on. But, really, partner? Some guy whose desk was next to his, someone shuffled his way between undercover jobs. Ray wriggled to his feet. Anyway, he needed a shower and to get dressed, and Ina hadn't said when, so he supposed he should hurry, and his partner had a day off too, so, yeah, he'd fill him in later.

An hour later, Ray pushed his way into a smoke filled bar. It was already populated with a scattering of late shift workers, ladies of the night, and an assortment of losers with nowhere better to be at nine in the morning. Ray was carefully dressed to fit in, his hair spiked up dangerously, and his oldest grey t-shirt, whisper soft, untucked over jeans. Ina came to him because he didn't look like a cop, she didn't get in trouble for being a snitch. It was important to Ray not to betray that trust. Especially not as scared as the usually bold woman had sounded. He saw her leaning against the bar, way up the back of the room. She would be good looking if the drugs, alcohol, and plain hard living hadn't added twenty years to her young face. She still had a body that could stop traffic, and Ray didn't doubt that it stopped cars cruising by looking for a party.

Ray threaded through the bar, making his way to where Ina leaned. Her face was pinched with worry as she pulled him into a corridor leading to the loading area where beer kegs were delivered. There were three men waiting there. Ray's heart fluttered with shock when he recognized who they were. Those profiles, the scars and disfigurements were known to every policeman, and most of the public of Chicago.

For most criminals, obvious tattoos or scars were a bad idea, making them far too easy to identify with certainty. But the Devon brothers, their scars caused terror, and it didn't matter if you recognized the big men who had cut their own ears off in prison in a show of ferocity and solidarity, who now sported angry red, rutted blemishes on the sides of their heads, not to mention other assorted souvenirs from fights on their faces. If you got close enough to recognize the Devon brothers you were in serious trouble.

Ray just didn't know why this serious trouble was looking for him. He made to back away from Ina, back into the safety of the bar. The Devon brothers had broken out of the Menard maximum security prison in a violent escape that left four guards and several inmates dead, and more injured. They were the most wanted men in Illinois.

"Don't go anywhere, unless you want a lot of people hurt."

And that would be Gregory Devon, the youngest, but definitely the meanest of the Devons. Ray found himself looking into a junior cannon of a handgun. He had no doubt that Greg Devon meant what he said. The interesting thing about the Devons was that they were scrupulous in their claims not to hurt innocent people. Their string of murders had been hits against rival drug and weapons dealers, conducted with a personal viciousness. But it was all too probable to Ray that the Devons didn't see anyone in the sordid bar scene as entirely innocent bystanders. The number of petty criminals present was probably enough to swing the balance toward mayhem.

"What do you want?" Ray asked.

"Come for a ride with us, cop." Alex Devon said. He was the oldest brother, with a soft, silvery voice that jarred with his rough visage. He sported a scar across his forehead and nose where he'd been hit with a broken bottle.

"Yeah, I guess I will." Ray said. "Let Ina go, yeah?"

"Sure thing, cop." Alex said. "She knows better than to say anything."

Ray was hustled between the three men to the loading bay at the back of the bar. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up as he went passively with them. Alex and Greg were holding a low conversation. Of course, Avery Devon, the middle brother, hadn't said a damn thing. How could he? Ray had followed the colorful career of the three, he knew full well Avery's voice was gone after he'd taken a rusty shiv slash across his throat ending up in an infection that nearly killed him. The man who'd taken Avery Devon's voice had later turned up in very small pieces. None of it made Ray feel any happier about his situation.

As Ray was escorted into the back of a battered jeep, he tried to figure out just what HE personally was doing here. Sure, the Devons didn't like cops. But why had they looked up Ina, called him in, specifically? Although he would have been proud to say it, he had never been involved in arresting any of them, or in any of their convictions. So what the hell did they want him for? He settled back into his seat between Greg and Avery and determined to keep his head and figure out what was going on. If he could stay alive long enough.

The jeep pulled up behind a nondescript shell of an apartment building, with condemned notices plastered all over it. Ray continued to be a good little hostage as the Devons manhandled him toward a small door. Avery Devon unlocked the door, leading into an emergency stair well.

"Upstairs." Alex Devon said. Ray trudged up a flight of stairs with the three homicidal men at his back.

"In here." Alex said, pushing open the stairwell door, leading into a dingy corridor. They crossed the corridor and Avery unlocked an apartment door.

For an apartment in a condemned building occupied by three men on the run from the law, Ray thought they'd done pretty well with the decor. Three old, but comfortable looking, armchairs were the main feature of the small living room that opened into an even tinier kitchen. A record player stood on an end table, speakers on the floor next to it, and a surprisingly large stack of records on top of one of the speakers. Ray remembered hearing that Alex Devon was something of an audiophile.

"Okay, I came quietly. Do I get to know why you grabbed me?" Ray asked, showing more guts than sense with the challenging tone in his voice.

Alex Devon took a seat in the biggest of the armchairs and gestured to his brothers. Greg took Ray by the elbow and held him in front of Alex, like a prisoner facing trial. Avery stood between Ray and the record player.

"Actually, yeah, you do." Alex said, "But you'll want to watch your tone. I don't tolerate insolence."

Alex nodded at Avery, who swung his fist into Ray's gut. Ray gasped and doubled, Greg's hold on his arm jerking forcefully to straighten him up again.

"Let me tell you about my cellmate in Menard." Alex said. "Troy Kane."

Ray stiffened.

"I see you recognize that name, cop. Troy hasn't forgotten you. Hasn't forgotten your betrayal."

Oh yeah. Ray swallowed. Troy Kane had taken him in like a son when Ray was deep undercover infiltrating his people-smuggling operation. Ray remembered well the threats and curses, the promises of revenge that Kane made as he was dragged out of the courtroom after his conviction. Troy Kane's name in conjunction with his current playmates was enough to turn Ray's guts to ice.

"But you know what else he hasn't got over?" Alex asked conversationally.

Ray had no idea, and said nothing. This got another nod from Alex, another blow from Avery.

"You'll answer when I ask a question."

"No, I don't know." Ray said sullenly.

"He hasn't forgotten that he stashed twelve mil in cash from his operation, somewhere in this city. He hasn't forgotten that he told you where, that he trusted you. Troy figured you'd already grabbed the money. I don't figure you have. But either way, you know where it is, and you're going to tell me."

Oh. Yeah. That was bad. Ray's eyes blinked closed, stunned by the simple brilliance of Kane's plan for revenge on him. Alex Devon wouldn't stop at killing Ray in his quest to make Ray give up the location of Kane's hidden funds. And that was information Ray couldn't give up, because Kane had never told him anything.

"You want to make it easy?" Greg Devon's voice startled Ray, the man twisting his arm up further to encourage a reply.

"I don't - Kane never told me - I swear to god, Kane never told me." Ray said. He hated that he was babbling, but he couldn't help the momentary panic. He took a deep breath, trying to control autonomic reactions that were running wild on him.

"Hard, then." Greg said, sounding happy.

Avery Devon moved toward the record player, lifting the arm up and dropping it on the disc already on the turntable. Ray was astonished to hear strains of opera coming from the speaker. He even knew that one. The big romantic song from Madame Butterfly, the one where she was waiting for her lover while he was off making time with some other girl. Stella made Ray go to the opera a couple of times, but none of it spoke to him, except that one, that one that got into his chest and made him feel crazy with sorrow for the tragic woman at the middle of it all. Love could be hell.

"So what, this some kind of cliche?" Ray forced himself to sneer, pushing a bravado that was backed by weak knees. The aria was loud enough that any other squatters in the building wouldn't hear what was happening and get interested. "Pretty music while you -"

He didn't get to finish his sentence as the beating began. Greg held him while Avery laid into him, fierce heavy blows to his body and face, accompanied by wordless grunts from the man who could not speak. Alex watched on impassively.

Ray drew down his focus to a small place inside him. He couldn't fight back, but he could move his head out of the way as much as possible, could read the blows and brace his body for them, exhaling with the gut punches, inhaling slowly to keep from getting dizzy. It didn't look like he was going to be in any shape to go to school in the morning. The thought made Ray suppress a hysterical snort. Or maybe a beating would be good for his rep as a down-and-out substitute teacher. Yeah, maybe this was an advantage. Sure. Ray tasted blood as a hard cross snapped his head back.

"You can tell me where the money is, any time, and this will stop." Alex said from his chair. "Or we can go on to other things."

Like what the Devons were known for. Ray could see a toolbox sitting on the kitchen counter that divided the two rooms. He very much did not want other things happening to him. This he could handle. Think of it like a boxing match. A boxing match he was losing very badly, sure, but still. He'd taken hard hits before, he could handle it. The soprano's voice washed through him, her anxious longing magnified by the terror Ray fought off.

Boxing match.

A desperate thought occurred to Ray, and suddenly it was all he could do to stop from grinning. Sure, it probably wouldn't work. But it might. And it would forestall any plier-related activities. Which was good. No pliers near Ray's feet was very, very good.

"I give!" He gasped out. "Stop."

"Ready to talk?" Alex asked. Greg made a disgusted sound, but Avery stopped punching, which was what Ray was looking for.

"Let me sit down?" Ray panted.

Alex nodded at Greg, who let go of Ray's arm. Ray staggered back. The nearest chair wasn't actually as comfortable as it looked. The springs in the seat had given out, and it sagged perilously. Ray suspected it had been hauled in off the street to furnish the hideout. Still, it felt heavenly compared to trying to stand on his own two feet.

Greg walked over to the kitchen counter, and Ray felt a quaking horror, which was only relieved when Greg turned and tossed him a nearly-empty roll of paper towels.

"Clean yourself up." he said.

Ray wiped the blood off his face with the rough paper. It gave him time to compose himself.

"Okay, you're ready to talk, so talk." Alex said. Greg stood behind Ray's chair, and Avery leaned against the wall. The EP played to an end and the sound of Madame Butterfly singing in vain hope about her faithless lover stopped. The suddenly still air seemed full of expectant tension.

Ray laughed softly, almost under his breath.

"Geez, you must think I'm stupid. If I tell you where Kane stashed the dough, you have no reason to keep me alive."

Alex steepled his hands together, looking thoughtful. It was an oddly academic gesture on the big, scarred man.

"You have a point. But obviously you're going to get us the money. So what's your proposal?" Alex asked.

The reasonable question sounded entirely dangerous coming from a Devon.

"Here's how I see it," Ray said, pushing down his nerves with a cocky smile. "You guys don't need the hassle of killing a cop. And I am just as smart as Ina on the keeping my mouth shut front. I kept my mouth shut about the money so far, right?" So, only because he'd never known about it, but it would appear to be a point in his favor. Ray hoped Alex Devon thought so.

"Seems that way." Alex said.

"So what I think is I take you where it's hidden, you get it out, you leave me there, tie me up, whatever, and get out of town, and we're all happy."

Greg spoke up. "I don't know. It'd be just as easy to keep working on you until you spill."

"But every minute you stay in this state is a minute closer to gettin' hauled back to Menard." Ray argued. "I never touched Kane's money, I thought it was safer where it was, a nest egg for me if he never made it out of prison. But it sure ain't worth dying for."

Greg snickered, an unpleasant sound. "You're a cop, you must have insurance. We could start cutting bits off if you want a nest egg. How much do they pay out for a finger?"

Ray shuddered. "That's okay, you really, really don't have to do that. Let's just get this show on the road. I take you to the cash, we're all set, right?"

Alex and Greg met eyes over Ray's head. Avery seemed to be out of the silent conversation. Then Alex stood.

"Yeah. We're set. Let's move."

Ray pushed himself out of the chair, feeling every blow Avery had landed. He was shaking, but he had to hold himself together and make his crazy plan work. God help him if it didn't. Ray's eyes hardened. There was more at stake than his life, but it was a gamble to not only save his own hide, but bring these dangerous men back in to custody.

As they walked back down the stairs of the building to the Jeep, Greg shoved Ray, not too gently. "If you try to call for help or anything while we're doing this, we will kill anyone you get involved. They'll die quick. You'll die slow."

"Got it." Ray said tersely. He was wired, buzzing with the energy needed to see this through, the boxing match verbal now, bobbing and weaving with his words as he spun lies about Kane and the money. In the Jeep, Greg rode up front with Alex, leaving Avery in the back seat with Ray. The unsightly slash across Avery's throat was still red from the blood pumping with the exertion of beating Ray, and Ray found his eyes kept wandering nervously to it as he gave Alex a series of directions through the winding back streets of his Chicago, toeing a dangerous line between keeping them from discerning just where it was they were headed, without making it obvious that he was steering them away from main streets that might have given the game away.

"Here!" he said, finally. "That building."

It was a tall, red brick warehouse. They were at the rear entrance, which was mercifully free of any information other than a large sign prohibiting parking across the entrance way.

"We'll have to pick the lock." Ray said as the four men gathered around the door. The Devons were, surprisingly, treating him like an accomplice rather than a hostage.

"Shoot it out." Alex said to Avery. Ray gloated internally. Even better. Shots had a way of attracting attention.

But Avery screwed a silencer onto his pistol before shooting the lock. Ray rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. Of course, these guys were professionals.

Avery pushed the door open. He kept his silenced pistol out, and Ray felt like a hostage once again as he led them into the back of the building.

"Down these stairs." he said. It was only a matter of coincidence that he knew the back way into this place. The sort of coincidence that went with hanging around somewhere long enough and cop instincts about knowing entrances and exits.

They went down a narrow flight of stairs to a green door. There was a vague murmur of activity on the other side.

"In there." Ray said.

"There are people in there." Greg said, gripping Ray's arm brutally.

"Nah. Yeah, it sounds like it, but it's the duct work. This office is just used for storage now, but under the desk is the trapdoor to the sub-basement that Kane used. Upstairs there's a drop-in center. Kane figured no-one would look too closely at a place like that."

Greg and Alex stared at Ray in the dim light as if they could read the truth from his face.

"If you're lying - " Greg said.

Ray shrugged. He knew it looked jittery, not as carefree as he wanted, but there was only so much nonchalance he could manage.

Alex opened the green door and Avery shoved Ray in first. He stepped forward quickly. If he was the bait, he had to walk them all the way into the trap before they got wise. Avery was right behind him, and Alex and Greg crowded in afterwards.

"What the -"

Alex Devon was evidently lost for words in the split seconds it took for him to realize what they had just walked into. It wasn't quite as bad as cheerfully walking into a precinct building and turning himself over, but nearly so.

The three Devon brothers gaped at the guns drawn around them, and the semi-clothed and towel clad men scrambling to unlock their lockers and get their own weapons out. Ray had lead them right into the basement locker room of the boxing gym he frequented, the one used mostly by other cops. Cops, who right now, were ready to shoot the Devons where they stood.

Avery reacted the fastest. Ray felt him bringing his hand up to shoot. Ray spun and controlled the gun hand, pushing it back so the trigger was bending Avery's finger painfully and his wrist was twisted over. At the same time, Ray glanced around to make sure he was keeping the line of fire clear of the other cops. This was what he'd been most afraid of, that he'd get someone else shot. The gun went off, the muzzle flash burning Ray's hand, but the bullet lodged harmlessly in the wall above one of the lockers. Then Ray finished the move, taking the gun away from Avery and breaking his finger in the process. Ray didn't feel too bad about that.

Alex and Greg didn't have time to draw their weapons before they were manhandled to the floor by a number of large, angry policemen ready with handcuffs. Ray staggered back and let one of them take Avery. He was done.

Ray leaned against one of the lockers. His stomach hurt. His head was throbbing. His ribs were tender. His hand was red and raw. He still couldn't believe he'd pulled off the con, managed to smooth talk the Devons into practically handing themselves over. It looked like he would be free to go to school in the morning. It was all over bar the endless paperwork.

Almost over. Ray looked up as a figure approached him, and groaned softly. Harding Welsh. Lieutenant Harding Welsh. Ray had run across him once or twice before and it was not a pleasure to see him with that look on his face. That deadly glare. Let alone with nothing on him but that deadly glare and knee-length, bright white boxer shorts. It was enough to send Ray over the edge into painful, hysterical little gasps of laughter.

"All right there, Detective?" Welsh said. He held out a towel to Ray, clean and damp, and wrapped it around Ray's burned hand. Ray blinked. Apparently Welsh wasn't furious _at_ him. "Looks like they worked you over."

Ray gasped in some air, pushing the insane need to giggle aside. "Yeah. I'm fine. Nothing an ice pack won't fix."

"Kowalski, that was about the craziest thing I've seen in all my years on the force." Welsh said.

Ray braced for the scalding critique to come.

"And one of the damn bravest. I'll see you get credit for the collar."

Ray gaped and found nothing to say before Welsh turned to oversee the booking of the escaped murderers.

As Ray held the towel around his hand he thought that he might be able to make it to start his life undercover as a substitute teacher tomorrow. He might even be able to leverage the beating he'd taken, playing it off as the result of not paying a gambling debt. It might speed the case up, get him in where he needed to be quicker. But there was one thing he wasn't going to do, and that was make it to dinner at Charlie Trotter's with Stella.

Ray dropped his head back against the locker. He'd almost rather face the Devons, again, than Stella when she found out he'd be standing her up. Whatever. It was worth it if he'd made Chicago that least little bit safer, today.

**Fraser: "In September 1993 you faced down three escaped murderers and you brought them to justice. Your third citation. You're a good policeman, Ray. And I would be proud to call you my partner... and my friend."**


End file.
